


Lavender Jam and Violet Scones

by Sand_Cursive



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Floralstuck, Multi, floralstuck au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/Sand_Cursive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it started, the flower shop had been closed for a year. He almost couldn't remember, anymore, the sound of the bell or the smell of perfumed roses drifting towards him on the street, adding a splash of colour on the wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Primary Colour Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> [Based on kia's lovely floralstuck au.](http://kia-von-gaylord.tumblr.com/post/37866134560/sooo-one-of-you-asked-for-some-of-the-other)

The summer sun is hot on the back of his neck, and he wonders if the skin will burn. A hand reaches up, brushing gingerly at the blank expanse between hair and the thin cotton fabric of his shirt. He’s sweating a little bit, and he wipes a sticky hand on the hem of his tee and adjusts his grip on the handlebars. He’s going fast enough to generate a little bit of wind, but the air that hits him is sticky and humid, and he shifts uncomfortably on the warm pleather seat of the bike as he leans into the right-hand turn.

  
He’s surprised when he rounds the corner, breathing in sharply. Instead of getting a face full of smoggy summer air, thick with sweat and diesel fumes and slowly melting sunscreen, he’s accosted by the warm sweet smell of flowers and freshly mown grass and a fruit that he can’t quite identify, just yet. He lets his bike roll to a stop, bumping gently against the curbside and jostling the seat hard against his ass. He would swear if he could be sure the sheer effort wouldn’t cause his lips to melt right off his face.

  
The hanging sign is dead still in the mid-afternoon heat, like it’s another victim of the sun’s energy zapping campaign. It’s freshly painted though, with clean white lines and striking, neat typography. The edges are painted in swirling leaves and vines, matching those on the storefront windows, which look like they’ve recently been replaced. He slouches over, forearms resting on his handlebars.

  
It’s the flower shop. He remembers, vaguely, when he used to come here with his father. They’d gone nearly every year when he’d been younger, getting a fresh bouquet of blue and red roses for the vase beside the urn on the fireplace mantle. They’d stopped a year or so ago, although it’d taken him nearly half the time to realize it’d been due to the fact that the shop had closed. His eyes are half-lidded as the sun continues to beat down on him, warming his scalp. He wonders when they opened again.

  
A bell tinkles from somewhere inside the shop as a girl steps out, light on her feet and nearly dancing. Her black hair obscures her face as she spins, holding a pot of something dark and earthy-smelling. “Thanks for the help,” she calls, smiling through the open door.

  
Hey, I know who that is. He wants to call out to her, but his brain is sluggish and his tongue is thick. She’s already halfway down the street, somehow, by the time he can put a name to the face. He turns instead, head fully dropped onto his arms, and stares resignedly into the shop window. The windows of the store are neatly kept and clean, but they’re so overcrowded with various samples of flora that he can barely see into the shop itself. He’s curious, and he debates going inside as he tries to determine the probability of there being air conditioning. Would that be good or bad for the plants? But he lifts his feet instead and pushes off the sidewalk, pedaling on the lowest gear he can possibly set it. His dad is expecting him back soon, anyway. No slacking off on the job.

  
He goes just a little bit faster, letting the air lift beneath his arms and through the spokes on his wheels, and he can imagine that he’s flying, almost. It’s a little bit too hot still, but the breeze is better than nothing at all, and anyway, it lifts the damp fabric off his back and lets his skin breathe. His shirt is almost dry by the time he pulls up in front of the bakery.

  
“The flower shop’s opened again,” he starts by way of greeting, ducking beneath the striped blue awning and into the blessed world of the temperature regulated atmosphere. His dad pokes a head around the door of the kitchen, smearing flour-covered fingers down the front of his ridiculously masculine apron. “What?” he asks.

  
John rolls his eyes, dropping dramatically into one of the softly padded seats in the front. “The flower shop. The one we used to go to every year? They had those coloured roses that we always bought.”

  
“Oh, that’s right!” His voice is muffled now, punctuated by the miscellaneous metallic clanking of utensils as he starts another batch of batter. “I heard the previous owners died – I wonder who’s managing the store now?”

  
John shrugs, less reluctant to move now that his core temperature has marginally dropped. “I don’t know. I didn’t go inside.”

  
“Well, it has been a while since we’ve gotten –” The rest of the words are drowned out by a heavy clattering into what is most likely one of the many industrial sized sinks in the bakery. John stands, walking through the door of the kitchen to come beside his father, already washing his hands and picking up a sponge to get started on the clean up.

“What was that?”

  
“I said, ‘It’s been a while since we’ve gotten flowers for Nana.’ I think I’ll drop by later and pick some up.”

  
“She’d like that. I guess.” He frowns at the whisk as he frees batter from between the wires.

  
“In fact, I think I’ll go over there after I finish this last order. You finish up with those dishes, son, and get ready for your last delivery run of the day.”

  
“What?” He turns so fast a pocket of bubbles whip themselves into his hair. “What about the cake in the oven?”

  
His father shrugs, already pulling the icing tips from the drawers. “It’s a pick-up. I’ll lock up afterwards, so you can just go home when you’re done.”

  
“Dad, it’s barely three.” He points a foamy finger in the direction of the front door, where the store hours are clearly printed beside the chalkboard sign advertising vegan delicacies. “The store doesn’t close for another two hours.”

  
“I’ll close early for today. It’s not like we’ve had a huge rush of customers.”

  
He turns back to the sink without responding, plunging his arms elbow-deep into the murky, soapy water. He isn’t sure what there is to be disappointed about, but he can’t keep the feeling from settling, feather-light and warm, in the hollows of his ribs. His father hums as he checks the time on the oven, and John shakes his head, the bubble crown floating from the tips of his hair. At least he only has one more delivery to make today.

  
X.

  
He’s almost panting on the front step, stooped low over the cardboard container in his hands. He’s half afraid the icing’s melted, sticking to the lid and running, smeared, in little rivulets of colour over the fluffy cake. Fingers tap nervously against the bottom of the box as he reaches over with his other hand and gingerly presses the slick white doorbell.

  
He presses a forehead against the unnaturally cool wood of the door, which becomes very apparently foolish when it opens a crack, and he stumbles into frosty air and darkness. His sneakers scuff against the tiled floor, leaving a long black streak as he stands, nearly bumping head first into a very solid body. He straightens, glasses askew on his face; all he can see is fair hair and dark lips.

  
“Hello, John,” her voice is low and soft, like the whisper of a breeze against his ear. “Please, do come inside.”

  
He shuffles back, not quite moving as far as the stoop, where the sun’s rays are still lasers burning into the sidewalk. “Sorry, I just – it’s really hot outside.”

  
She waves away his apology airily, taking the perfectly ribbon-ed box from his arms so he can adjust his glasses. “I was being serious, you know. You can come inside and get something to drink, you look like you’re about to expire.”

  
“Oh golly, yes please.” He kicks his sneakers over by the door, enjoying the cold feeling of tile beneath his toes. He squints into the darkness, nearly tripping over the wooded step into the house. Every light is off and every curtain drawn; he can only make out the barest of shapes, scattered tall and stiff in the frigid air. “Why is it so dark in here?”

  
“The electricity is out.” Her voice is off somewhere to his right, farther away than he’d though she’d be.

  
“Oh, that’s too bad. Are you bored? Is your food going to go bad? How is it so cold in here?”

  
She’s in the kitchen now, and his hands grope along the wall, brushing against gilded framed portraits and bumping against hanging statuettes as he tries to find his way to the kitchen. “That was a joke, John. The electricity is working perfectly fine; I’m simply leaving the fridge open to keep the house cool.”

  
“Oh. That works? That sounds pretty smart, Rose, I should do that.” He stumbles as he passes the threshold, only able to make out her profile illuminated by the open fridge door. It disappears as she closes it, lending light only long enough for him to make his way relatively painlessly onto a tall bar stool. The metal burns like ice as his leg brushes against it, and he nearly slips off.

  
“That was also a joke. I do not recommend such a course of action.” He can hear the sound of something being poured into a glass, and he sighs as he rests his cheek against the cold marble of the tabletop. “Oh. Why not?”

  
“You’d waste electricity and I can’t vouch for the state of your food afterwards.” The glass clinks as she sets it down, barely a breath’s space from his face. He downs the entire thing in one go, relishing the sweet, refreshing taste of the water as it runs down his throat.

  
“Thanks,” he sighs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He gestures to the shadow on the table beside him, head alighting back on the marble. “So, what’s the occasion?”

  
“It was merely a clever scheme on my part to get you to my house.”

  
“Ha, thanks.” The soft leather of the seat beside him gives a sigh as she settles into it, elbows propped gently on the counter. “So did your mom find another case of really ancient wine or something? Did she get another paper credited and published?”

  
“The grand holy wizard of Hogwarts descended yesterday to tell her that her application for night classes was accepted. She’s hard at work for her diploma as we speak.” She’s holding the base of his glass, tilting it at different angles as though she’s searching for a specific pattern of light refraction or clarity in the dark. He thinks she’s taking it to the sink when she puts it down, slipping off the stool and walking around to the cake box instead.

  
“It might be melted,” he warns.

  
“Best find out then.” He doesn’t see how she does it, but the ribbon is somehow neatly severed just below the bow, and she folds the top open carefully. He can’t see the state of the cake at all.

  
“How does it look?”

  
She covers it smoothly, sliding the box off the table as she moves. “Excellent. Just as I’d expect from Egbert and Son’s House of Edible Art.”

  
“That’s not the name of the bakery,” he whines, watching as she moves the cake into the fridge. He closes his eyes against the glare as the door opens. “Where’s your mom, anyway?”

  
“She’s at the liquor store, of course.”

  
“I thought you guys were closed on Mondays?”

  
“She got a new shipment in. Either that or inventory I think, I don’t actually remember.”

  
He nods against the table, aware that she probably can’t see it, but not bothering with any verbal affirmation. The bar stool and the marble and the house itself; everything is far too comfortable.

  
“Why John, are you falling asleep at my bar?” He mumbles incoherently as she crosses over. “Is this all some elaborate ploy on your part to arrange a sleepover at my house? Of the girlish nature, I assume, replete with makeovers and hairdos and pillow fights.” She pauses, and he can nearly hear the smile as it spreads. “I suppose I shall have to call Jade, then, and we can make a real girl’s night of it. Although, come to think of it, she’s probably already engaged.”

  
John turns over, eyes glancing blearily up. He can see just slightly better now, though the pose she’s adopted tells him about as much as he was able to ascertain while blind. “Who’s she engaged to?”

  
“Why, you didn’t know? I though you would be the very first to hear of the happy news.”

  
“What?” He sits bolt upright, hair sticking up on one end. “There’s news? About Jade? Who is it? When’s the wedding?”

  
She laughs, adopting the sly pose she uses when she’s about to play her favourite game of tease John. He swats at the hand that shields her mouth as her smile grows. “Who is it?”

  
“Well, if Jade hasn’t told you, I don’t think it would be my place . . .”

  
“Damn it Rose, just tell me!”

  
“Well, there’s this lovely young man that she’s been hanging around with lately,” she starts, infuriatingly vague. “From what I’ve been told, she’s even spent the night.”

  
He rolls his eyes, dropping back into the chair. “Is this another story about a stray puppy or other animal-type that she spent the night nursing?”

  
“Actually, this young man is of the human variety.”

  
“What?” He looks up, tracing the expression on her face as best he can. “There’s an actual guy?”

  
“Well, no need to sound so surprised John. I believe she’d be quite upset to think you have such low expectations of her.”

  
“That’s not what I meant! I just meant, you know, I thought maybe you were just making all this fanfare so you could turn it into nothing. It’s really hard to tell when you’re being serious, you know.”

  
“Why honestly, I thought you knew me better than that,” her tone is just vaguely hurt enough for it to be off-putting. “I’m always serious.”

  
“So who is it?” He asks, waving his hand in the air as though he can dispel all the unrelated tangents of the conversation.

  
“You know the old flower shop down on Bay? The one that recently opened? Well her handsome suitor works there with his brother. I believe he’s the delivery boy – rather like you, actually, although from what I’ve heard he walks his deliveries around town.”

  
“In this heat?” He drops his forehead against the marble again, feeling a sudden rush of sympathy. “Man must be dedicated to flowers or something.”

  
She laughs. “Well, to each his own. Although you can determine quite a bit about a person by examining their methodology. You, for example, quite enjoy that bike out front, don’t you?”

  
“Oh god, please don’t start this.” He turns his head away even as she crosses over to sit in front of him. He can hear the cap of her pen being pushed off by neatly manicured nails. “No Rose. No, no, no, no, no.”

  
“I do believe you’re the one who started it, if indeed anything has been started at all.”

  
“No. No please, I don’t have the energy for this.”

  
“That’s alright. Discussing a theory hardly takes any energy at all. I’ll even let you simply sit silently and listen first, if you’d like. Now, about the bike . . .”

  
X.

  
He barely shifts from his position on the couch, still stewing in the deep psychological discomfort that customarily follows a session with Rose Lalonde, amateur psychotherapist. Psychologist? Psychoanalyst. Maybe. His shirt is hiked halfway up his chest but he doesn’t bother adjusting it; the air conditioning in their house has been broken for three days and the repairman is still waiting on a part. He watches the door out of the corner of his eye, mulling over the direction his life has taken, and what the possible implications might be of telling his father he wants to sell his bike.

  
It’s so hot indoors that he considers, very, very briefly, sitting on the porch swing outside. He lifts a lid just high enough to tell that the sun is still beating mercilessly down on the neighbourhood, and drops his arm to the floor instead, brushing the wood with the back of a fevered hand. The floor is lava.

  
“I’m home, son!” The door creaks, scraping slightly along the floor where the corner bends. Soft soled leather shoes (not quite the most practical footwear for a baker) are lined precisely on the shelf, and socked feet pad inside.

  
He doesn’t even open his eyes. He thinks, for a moment, that he might be dead, right at this very moment, and having some sort of strange ghost-who-has-not-yet-moved-on-and-is-perfectly-content-to-haunt-his-home experience, ala Just Like Heaven. Although come to think of it, Reese Witherspoon’s character was in a coma.

  
There’s a clatter on the mantle, and the soft shuffling of feet as his father leaves and returns with a slightly sloshing container. John looks, up, squinting at the blurry outline of the living room and groping with one hand along the coffee table. The metal of his frames are hot against his face, and he nearly bites his tongue as they come in contact with the sensitive skin of his ear.

  
“What are those?” His father turns, and smiles, soft and kind when he sees the fussy state his son has settled into. “They’re roses.”

  
“They’re yellow.”

  
“Yes, they are.”

  
He furrows his brows in consternation, not up to playing games. “We always got red and blue roses. Why are they yellow?”

  
His father’s back is to him, oriented just slightly in the direction of the urn. There’s no way for him to see his expression. “I thought it might be time for a change.” His tone is a liquid mixture of sober and bittersweet, and John pauses.

  
Hands push against the damp fabric of the couch cushions, propelling him up. “Well. They look nice.”

  
His father takes his hat off, gripping the brim gently in his hands. He remains perfectly still though, quiet and staring.

  
“Dad?”

  
“Do you think she’d like them?” The words are spoken at normal volume, but they’re somehow soft, and he leans forwards, drawn inexplicably. Blue eyes glance up, trying to give an honest appraisal, comparing the colour of the flowers with the strength of a photographed smile.

  
“Yeah. I think she likes them.”


	2. Outrun by velocity shorts

A white-khaki shorted hip bumps against the cool metal handle of the oven door, pushing it closed. John walks to the tabletop, breathing in the fresh scent of snicker doodles and marvelling at the fact that the bakery kitchen is somehow cooler than his house. He pauses, cookies halfway to the table.

He can hear voices out front. He edges slowly over to the crack in the kitchen door, hoping to catch a glimpse. He bumps back into a tall wooden table instead, and the burning metal tray jostles over the oven mitts, burning his arm. He hisses, setting it on the nearest non-flammable surface and grabbing a fist full of flour, rubbing it along the blister that forms.

“Thank you very much.” His father’s voice wafts over, suddenly crystal clear over the dying spits of pain. “I was afraid I’d ordered too much – I wasn’t sure how you were going to carry it all.”

The response is low and pleasant, but the words are incomprehensible. His father laughs, and the alien voice makes another soft comment.

“Well, maybe next time I’ll send my son over to help you out.”

He’s on the verge of opening the door and stepping through when a timer behind him sounds loudly. He jumps, and runs a hand through his hair, turning reluctantly on the spot to snatch the oven mitts back up again. The oven door squeals slightly on its hinges, and the rest of the conversation is censored out. He barely hears the chime as the stranger opens the front door.

“What happened to you, son? You look like a ghost.”

He places the muffin tin on a separate workspace, and glances at his father. He stands with arms crossed in the doorway, bemused expression on his face. “What do you mean?”

“How did you get so much flour in your hair?”

“Oh.” He gives his head a little shake, and a small drift falls on his shoulder. “I dropped a tray. Sort of. Who was that, in the front?”

His father raises a brow but steps back, letting him take in the view of the shop. “What do you think?”

The inside of the shop seems brighter than it did yesterday, although perhaps more crowded. There are vases on every table, and one on the counter, obscuring his view with carnations as he steps out. He lifts a hand to part them, taking in the heady scent.

Every single vase is filled to the brim with flowers. Tiger lilies sit at the corner, with soft splashes of sunrise on their petals. There are pansies in the centre with snowdrops and juniper. There are other flowers too, soft and glowing, that he can’t even name.

“There are a lot of flowers,” he starts, brushing a hanging petal from the nearest bouquet. It feels like satin against his fingers. He watches his father’s reflection in the polished glass display case. He has the strangest smile; serene and far away. “It looks nice.”

“Yeah? I was hoping they might brighten up the bakery.”

“No, yeah. They definitely do. That.” He flicks a short leaf from the back of one hand. “So the guy who came in, he was the delivery boy?”

“Yes, he was.” He turns to John, ruffling his hair and dislodging the small smattering of pale powder remaining. “He’s about your age.”

“Really.”

He chuckles, low. “Nothing’s stopping you from going to say hello.”

 John pauses, staring out the front window to the empty sidewalk beyond. It’s too early in the morning for the town to be awake, and the roads are quiet and softly lighting. He shakes his head, and moves back in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll ice the cookies, but there are three dozen cupcakes you need to frost.”

“You can’t turn them all into Slimer.”

“He’s great! And those cookies are popular.”

A firm hand squeezes his shoulder.

“No they’re not, son.”

X.

“If you don’t need any help later, I’m going to the park,” he calls through the back door. His father waves a dough-encrusted spatula. “Which one?”

“The park with the bike trail. The long one.”

“There are three parks with bike trails.”

“The loooong one.” He kicks up the kickstand, swinging one leg over and nearly unsettling the tower of pastries in the basket behind him.

“Pick up some eggs on your way back.”

“Do you need them now?”

“For tomorrow.” He looks down into the bowl, his back to the door again.

“Alright. See you later, dad!”

His father’s goodbye is left behind with the dust thrown up by his spinning rear wheel. He peels out onto the street, chasing the pattern of drifting clouds as they dart over the sun. It’s no less warm than it was yesterday, but the shade is nice. The road is empty and the beginnings of a breeze are kicking up around his feet, so he closes his eyes and enjoys the caress of cool air against his forehead.

He gulps in a big lungful of summer morning. It’s delicious – full of fruits and lemonade and the faint smell of flowers. Except that the scent isn’t that faint at all. He grips the brakes only slightly too roughly, and looks up and down the storefronts along the street. The park is two blocks over, and the flower shop is somewhere far behind him. He pedals slowly, walking the last few steps to jump the curb. He catches a slight movement from the corner of his eye, and whips his head around just in time to see a bobbing basket of flowers disappear around the corner.

He takes a step in that direction, only half-conscious of the decision, when the first car of the morning rounds the bend, horn staccato sharp. He jumps back, yelling a genuine ‘Sorry!’ in the direction of the disgruntled driver, and steps back onto the sidewalk. He has a delivery to make.

The ticking of the card against the spokes keeps a steady beat, and he hums with it as he walks. He isn’t sure why he’s so fascinated with the employees of that flower shop. It might be the novelty of having the opportunity to meet someone new; it’s not the quintessential small town, but it certainly isn’t much of a city either. He knows almost every employee for the square block of stores down the Main, and he’d been good friends with the previous owners of the recently refurbished nursery.

They really had loved that shop.

He’s so caught up in his ruminations that he walks right to the end of the street of his first delivery. Soles slap softly on the sidewalk as he walks backwards, past six houses to the address written on the first package. The twine holding it in place scratches at the pads of his fingertips as he picks at the top knot, stabbing himself twice with a fingernail before success. He carefully leans his bike against the iron curlicued fence, tipping it on a large angle to keep it from slipping down.

He steps lightly on the slate stone path, careful not to crush the spry green sprigs of grass between the slabs. The hedges beneath the porch are tidy and stiff, but the rose bushes sway in the gathering breeze. They’re a soft, peachy colour, and the scent permeates in the strong heat. Their rustling is a layered whisper that follows him up the steps to the tall, glass door.

The doorbell is loud, and the first few notes of _Ode to Joy_ ring in the air, filling the street with an echoing refrain. He hears a muttered shuffling, but the door remains closed, and he fidgets as a minute passes, wondering if he should ring again. There’s a soft protest of crying metal, and he glances back to see his bike slipping inches closer to the ground.

“Good morning John!”

“Oh!” He steps back, as the door swings slightly on silent hinges. “Good morning!”

“Oh, thank you dear, I was wondering when that was coming.” A hand reaches out to take the box in his arms, and he belatedly thrusts it forwards. “Sorry, Mrs. Potts. It took me a while to get started this morning.”

“It’s alright, there wasn’t any hurry.” She pats him gently on the arm, weathered skin cool against smooth flesh. “How has the shop been doing?”

He smiles. “Good, actually. We’ve been getting a lot more business lately.”

“That _is_ good. And how about you, dear, how are you getting on?”

“Me?” Sneakers shuffle on the concrete. “I’m good too.” He chances a look behind him at his bike, now just barely held up by the pike pushing under the handlebars. “Well, it was nice to see you, Mrs. Potts.”

“Off already hmm?”

“I have more deliveries to make,” he starts, gesturing vaguely behind him. He feels strangely guilty about leaving. “I like your rose bushes,” he calls, already walking back down the path.

“Why thank you. I just had them put in you know, by the lovely fellows down on Bay.”

The handle bars pause in their ascent as he hauls them upright. “The flower shop? The one that re-opened?”

The door is already gliding closed. “I suppose it must be. They were really very nice young men. Tell them hello for me dear.”

“I don’t –” But he’s cut off by a hand, waving just behind the glass window.

He starts the bike at a jog, jumping on the seat once he’s achieved a suitable momentum. His next delivery is in the completely opposite direction. He’s probably going a little too fast now, and he can feel the packages being jostled as he bumps over the curb. How is it that he’s the only one who hasn’t met them yet?

He handles his next two deliveries with far less distraction or disruption. It helps that he doesn’t talk to them nearly as much, or do anything, really, other than give a hasty wave as he hightails it off their property. He trips twice, and once dives to save a cake box as it nearly topples onto the sidewalk. He uses the hem of his shorts to wipe most of the blood off his knee.

It gets warmer and brighter as the day goes on. He finishes the rest of his rounds, fortunately, before the sun has really begun to release the full force of its glare, taking his bike on a slow, meandering path to the park under its watchful eye. There’s a cafe on the next street, and he debates going in for a cold glass of something, before all the moisture is leached right from his bones.

He relents, slipping clumsily from the seat and walking his bike up to the boxed hedges that line the outdoor patio, pushing it just inside the restaurant’s enclosure. It slips down nearly halfway when he props it against the plastic soil boxes, so he grabs one handle bar and sticks it in the shrubbery, catching it between two entwining branches. He’s far too dehydrated to bother with the kickstand.

“Dude, you’re going to kill this hedge.” The voice is low, with a foreign accent that he’s never heard in town. It adds a strange levity to the tone.

“Oh. Sorry, Mr. Hedge.” He backs away slightly, extracting the handlebar with incriminating bits of leaf still attached.

“Damn right, you better be apologizing. Poor guy works all day to shield you from the sun or ungodly winds and you go and murder his family? Need to get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness. ”

“What?” He looks up, squinting immediately at the shadowed eclipse. He lifts a hand over his eyes.

“I can speak hedge, bro. He is highly upset. Calling for your blood and shit.” The speaker is a tall young man, one tan, heavily freckled arm draped over the plant. He has really, really blond hair.

“Oh. Uh, I didn’t mean to upset him or anything. He _can_ have some blood though, just give me a second.” He gropes in the pockets of his shorts, fingers scrabbling against the lint. Half a crumpled tissue finally emerges, and he swipes it along the very slowly scabbing scrape of his right knee. “Just. Where do I even put it?”

“Blood sacrifice. Very nice.” The stranger nods his head in approval, the tissue a gory image on his highly reflective black sunglasses. “Gotta bury it in the soil, offer it up as supplemental nutrients. They’re gonna feed on your damn blood.”

“Ha, cool.” John leans into the base of the planter, hoping to find a spot of soft soil. It’s all packed in, completely rock hard. “Damn, I don’t think I can bury it, the dirt isn’t going to give.”

“Here.” A small spade is handed over, dropping dirt into messy black hair.

“Oh. Thanks.” The soft sound of scraping dirt hangs in the hazy air, and he straightens once he’s done, handle facing back towards the blond.  “I’m John.”

“Hey John.” He isn’t sure whether or not he’s going to offer his name for a moment, and he scratches the dirt off one wrist as he waits. They both let the silence settle. “My name’s Dave.”

“You’re the delivery boy from the flower shop, right?”

“The delivery DUDE.” He corrects, posturing aggressively.

“Right. Sorry.” A hand pushes the matted hair off his forehead, and he grins. “When did you guys move to town?”

“Couple weeks ago.”

“Oh. Really?” His brows furrow, confused. “But I haven’t seen you at all until five minutes ago.”

“Been busy helping get the shop set up and junk. Making it nice and quaint and presentable. Fucking hand-stenciled all those damn flowers.”

“They look good!” He offers. “You work there with someone else right? Your uh, business partner or something?”

“Yeah, my Bro.” He doesn’t offer any further explanation, leaning away from the hedge. John frowns, sensing the conversation’s imminent conclusion.

“So, how do you like it here? Finding your way around town and stuff?”

A perfect eyebrow is raised behind the shades. “Are you offering, Egbert? Impressive dude, you work fast.”

“I, yeah? I guess? So if you ever need anyone to show you around I mean, I am all over it!”

He smirks. “I’ll hit you up for the full John Egbert experience then.”

“Really?” He pauses, eyes bright. “I work at the bakery with my dad, you can swing by when you’re done with, uh, with your flower thing.”

“Oh no,” he starts, suddenly standing upright. “Oh no, sir, you did not just cast aspersions on the lifestyle of the flower-tenders. The hand-picked chosen ones, who have been called to the glorious task of ensuring the survival of the flora. The ones who have spent their lives dedicated to digging through mulch, who have perfected the sacred art of compost.”

He salutes as he backs away, tucking the spade neatly into the basket on his back. “But yeah, I’ll come over when I’m done with the flower thing.”

He waves at his retreating form, excited, and grabs his bike with one hand. He can’t quite remember what he was doing here, anymore.

X.

The door is heavy, and he leans against it with his full weight, six dozen eggs in his arms. He shuffles inside once the gap is large enough, spinning around its closing orbit and depositing the cartons on the nearest available surface. The steel handle of the double-door industrial fridge gives him something to brace against as he pries it open, getting hit in the face with a blast of frigid air. Twelve sticks of butter stare out at him, the shiny gold foil on every shelf.

“John, is that you?”

He corrals the sticks into an uneven pile on one shelf, trying to make room. “Who else would it be?”

His father appears, hair immaculate, from around the corner of the doorframe. “I didn’t think you were coming back. Did you bring eggs?”

“Six dozen.”

“Excellent.” He watches for a moment, as John starts making neat stacks with the cartons, sliding them carefully into the newly cleared space. “Son, could you handle things out front? I need to start the macarons while I’ve still got time.”

“Sure.” He lets the fridge door swing closed on its own, side-stepping his father in the doorway. He’s a little bit taken aback when he finds something of a legitimate queue in the front.

“Oh.” He squeezes in behind the register, glancing around for the storefront apron. “How can I help you?”

“I need two dozen cupcakes – one of each, you can just double up whichever. It’s my godson’s birthday.”

He smiles, sliding the dark blue loop of the apron around his neck. “That’s nice. He’s turning four, right?”

“Yes. We’re having a sort of themed party for him; he’s really interested in dinosaurs right now.” The speaker flicks through images on a cherry red phone, the blue illuminating low highlights in her soft brown hair. She turns the screen in his direction, a gap-toothed smile and a stuffed velociraptor staring back at him.

“Really?” He ducks behind a cabinet, rooting through the carefully labelled boxes. “I think we have some dinosaur candles in the back.”

“Do you?” She looks up hopefully, leaning on the counter to take a peek. “I’ll take them, if you’ve got them.”

He slots them into the first box, grabbing a plastic glove from the counter as he begins to fill it. “Is it going to be a big party?”

“Mostly family, I think, and some of the younger relatives. Hopefully they’ll be able to play nicely together.”

“Well, as long as none of them end up at the Doctor’s again.” He chuckles, sliding the cupcake boxes across the polished countertop, stepping over to ring up the order. “All done!  It’s an even fourty-five, including the candles. Do you want me to wrap it up for you?”

“No need John, I’m headed right over.” She slips the bills onto the table, sweeping the packages into her arms. “Thank you!”

“Have fun!” He calls back, turning to the next in line. “How can I help you today?”

“A coffee and a vanilla-mango muffin, please.”

“Sure thing, Jessica!” He rounds the corner at the side, grabbing a plastic cup and a lid from the table. “I have to warn you though, I think the grounds are extra strong today.”

“Can you double my cream shot, then?” Slender fingers sift through a small change purse, extracting exactly two dollars and seventy-three cents.

“Not a problem,” he sing-songs, already stirring the mixture. He caps the lid and grabs the muffin with his free hand, stacking them together before her. “How is your internship going?”

She laughs, and runs a hand through the ends of her very slick ponytail. “A nightmare. It’s all paperwork and zero respect. Still, I’m getting paid for it, so that helps.” The sigh that follows is half-wistful as she turns. “Thanks, John!”

“Have fun!” he calls back. Her low heels click softly on the wooden floor in response.

“You’re looking busy today,” a voice remarks.

John laughs, shifting to face the older gentleman across from him. “Yeah. We don’t usually have so many people coming in. I thought I was done for the day, to be honest.”

“Well, I’m glad to see the store is doing well.” Brown eyes shine from beneath thick brows.

“Thanks. We are too, actually, even if it means making more deliveries in the heat.” He turns to the kettle, pouring out a cup of strong Earl Grey. “Will you be having anything else today, Mr. Dunlap?”

He shakes his head. “Not today, thank you. I’ve got to watch the sugars now.”

John slides the cup over, and accepts the two shiny quarters as a strong hand drops them into his. “Say hello to your father for me.”

“Will do!”

He watches as the man totters slightly towards the door. The bell barely sounds as he pushes through, and suddenly, the shop is empty again. He sighs, arm stretching above his head, and begins rooting around for the cleaning rag. There’s a small puddle of dark brown liquid beneath the coffee maker, and he sprays at it with a bottle of clean seltzer water, soaking the stain with the pungent aroma of grounds. He doesn’t hear the door open again.

“Half a dozen almond coconut macaroons, please,” a voice sings, bright and cheerful.

He turns, and his eyes light up behind their square frames. He casts the rag back on the table. “Jade! I haven’t seen you in nearly a whole week! Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry! I just had to re-order some of the journals – Bec was a little bit sick on the weekend and he accidentally knocked everything out of the cabinets. It was a huge mess.” She frowns, sighing. “But it was only three days, John! I haven’t been absent that long.”

“Three days is _forever_ in summer time,” he intones seriously, hands sweeping coconut confections into the appropriate container. “Forever, Jade. I don’t think you appreciate how long that is.”

Her eyebrows draw together, dark and concerned, and she slaps a hand against the glass. “I said I was sorry! And it wasn’t even my fault! But I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

He perks up, her order already filled and sitting neatly inches from her palm. “So we’re still on for tomorrow night?”

“Of course!” She brightens, her smile large and infectious, and leans forwards. “But if you missed me so much, you can come by the store later. Rose is bringing Casey, or, uh, the ‘Viceroy’, for a little check up before then, so maybe you’ll get to see her early!”

“Oh yeah, Rose!” He shakes his head, dark hair catching the soft white light of the hanging bulbs. “I was talking to her! Yesterday. I think.” He catches at her free hand, the pads of his fingers brushing against her dark knuckles. “Congratulations Jade! I’m sure you’ll be very happy!”

“What? Thank you?” She takes a step back, posture tall but footing unsure.

“I just met him – he’s the one wearing the really weird glasses right? Dave?” 

“You’ve only just met him?” She shakes her head, sighing, dark hair dancing. “Even _I_ met him when the store opened, John. I thought you were more ‘plugged in’ than that.”

“What? No! I’m very plugged in, thank you. I was just a little bit. Busy.”

“Don’t make excuses John! If you were just too shy to introduce yourself, you could have told me! I wouldn’t have minded helping you out.” She laughs, eyes sly when she catches his. “He’s really cool though, isn’t he? I bet you were just nervous.”

“Pft. Please, he’s not all that cool. Did you _see_ his stupid glasses? I mean, what was up with those things? You could take someone’s eye out. It’s an eye hazard.” He tilts towards her, voice lowered. “Those things should come with warnings, Jade.”

“The glasses _are_ the warning.” They both turn, John pulled off balance and dragged over half the counter as she wrests her hand from his grasp. “I’m too hot to handle kids. Can’t look directly at me or you’ll be torn to ribbons by the sharp rays of my unfiltered essence.”

He taps the heel of his sneakers against the ground, the shiny red toes just barely peeking out from beneath the checkered cloth covering every table. John starts, looking from Jade to Dave and back again. “How did you guys do that?” he asks, genuinely mystified.

She looks over, brows drawn below the rims of her round glasses. “Do what?”

“Come inside without the bell ringing? Did you stop it? Is it broken?” He slides awkwardly back to his feet and circles the front, moving to stand at the entrance to the shop. A hand reaches up and he bats at the bell. The sound is even louder from directly beneath it.

“I think it did ring when I came inside,” Jade begins, turning to face him quizzically. “Maybe you were just distracted?”

He steps back, settling against the front of the glass display case. “Oh. Probably.” He shakes his head and his glasses rattle slightly against his face. “It’s too hot outside Jade,” he whines. “I’m starting to lose my mind.”

She laughs. “Shut up John, you were inside for at least an hour, weren’t you? You should be fine! Meanwhile, I was the one walking all the way down the street just to see you!”

“Hey man,” he calls languidly, breaking his brief silence. They turn in unison, their expressions reflected in the triangular black plastic of his shades. “If you’re going to hang out here for a little while, I’m going to go back to the shop first to drop off the damn basket.”

John only just sees the straps circling the fabric of his pristine white shirt. “Oh. No, I mean, I can come with you if you want –”

He waves a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t worry about it – you and Harley can catch up. Just come meet me when you’re done.”

Jade turns to him, smiling, while he slips through the front door. “You did make friends, John!” She leans over, arms locked in a death embrace as she spins with him. “And I thought you were too shy. Well, have fun on your date then, I wouldn’t want to keep you from getting ready!”

Her words are lost though, the incoherent slur flying right over his head. As they spin, he catches a glimpse of the tan young flower delivery boy sauntering down the sidewalk. The storefront windows are large, occupying nearly the entire wall from ceiling to floor, and he catches sight, finally, of what lies beneath the young man’s torso.

From what he can see of tanned calf to upper thigh, his legs are entirely smooth and exposed. The only protective covering is a flimsy piece of purple cloth, fashioned into what he imagines might be the shortest shorts he has ever seen on an actual, living person. He can’t tear his gaze away.

Jade finally looks at him, concerned by the lack of response to her ‘gentle’ ribbing. “John? What are you –” Green eyes follow the line of sight forged by sky blue, and she turns, her long white skirt brushing gently against the unprotected skin of his lower calves.

“Jade,” he tries, the words slightly stilted on his tongue. “Those shorts.”

“Yes John, those are shorts,” she responds, bemused. “They are purple shorts.”

“Those are really short shorts.”

She snorts, slightly, as she finally grasps the point he’s very tentatively trying to sharpen. “How can you have met him and not seen those shorts yet?”

“He always wears those?”

“John,” she starts, staring seriously. “That’s the store uniform.”

He nearly chokes on his tongue.

 


End file.
